


faire un petite fête

by armethaumaturgy



Category: Elsword (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 03:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13205106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armethaumaturgy/pseuds/armethaumaturgy
Summary: “So, why’d you crash here?” Esper asks, offering to pass the pipe. Infi takes it and takes a long drag, marveling at the surprisingly rich chocolate flavor the smoke carries.“Well, to steal your tobacco, for one,” he says, taking another long drag. Esper snorts, fingers tapping on his (admittedly cool) light-up keyboard at the speed of… something. Definitely faster than Infi can.“If I find even one package missing, I’m personally hiring a deep web hitman.”





	faire un petite fête

**Author's Note:**

> im posting this super belatedly but this was my contribution to the [halloween/mafia collab](https://elscollabproject.wixsite.com/) back in october! please check it out!

“My eyes hurt, this is bullshit.”

There’s a heavy sigh coming from the other end of Seraph’s earpiece, followed by a deep inhale and a bubbling sound. She scoffs at her partner, even though he can’t see her. “Smoking again?”

A pause. “That has nothing to do with you, Seraph,” he mutters, “I just need something to keep me sane while looking at this stupid green shit. What do they even want us to do at this point, the security is down and the team is probably already on the way back.”

“You’re a hacker, and hackers get a black terminal with green words. Like all of us, now shut up,” she grumbles, and for a second, just a miniscule second, she thinks it worked, but then Esper’s deft fingers show off how fast they type and before she could even think about the goal of his work, her terminal blacks out. It comes back alive just as fast, but instead of the familiar and calming green illuminating her face, the words glare at her with that disgusting shade of purple she was forced to grow accustomed to.

“I prefer black and purple, thanks,” Esper says, going back to his pipe to let her undo the nonexistent damage.

Her lips form a tight line. “Of course you do.”

A knock comes from Esper’s side of the call and she can practically see him perk up, exhale the chocolate-tasting smoke and stand up to go open the penthouse door. She checks all her histories and makes sure to save today’s logs onto one of her disposable USBs before deleting it.

“Hey Seraph,” an energetic voice greets her when Esper returns, moving to save and delete his own logs. “Still don’t understand how you guys do this. Like, this is just a slew of numbers.”

A soft slap. “Let go of my keyboard, Infi!” Esper hisses, irritated, “All these numbers say ‘fuck off.’”

“The security also said ‘fuck off’, but you think that stopped me?”

“Who exactly do you think stopped the security in the first place, huh?”

“My irresistible charms, of course.”

“You don’t have a single redeeming quality about yourself, much less a charm, you dope.”

The boys continue chatting, throwing around meaningless insults, but Seraph decides she has had enough and disconnects from the secured line with only a ‘See ya.’ She misses both the answers as she puts her headphones down and stretches.

Working with that guy never ceases to get to her, no matter how much she insists she doesn’t care. He’s just so annoying… But the mafia pays well and he might help them track her if she ever decided to switch to someone else. He might be annoying as hell, but even she can’t write off his tracking skills.

It’s not like they’re friends, barely acquaintances, but it’d be best to stay on civil terms.

For now.

* * *

“So, why’d you crash here?” Esper asks, offering to pass the pipe. Infi takes it and takes a long drag, marveling at the surprisingly rich chocolate flavor the smoke carries.

“Well, to steal your tobacco, for one,” he says, taking another long drag. Esper snorts, fingers tapping on his (admittedly cool) light-up keyboard at the speed of… something. Definitely faster than Infi can.

“If I find even one package missing, I’m personally hiring a deep web hitman.”

“Aw,” Infi feigns sadness, but it’s quickly forgotten in lieu of another long drag, his lungs filling with the smoke and calming his nerves. Not that he’d consider himself a smoker, but passing up tobacco this good should be a crime. “Anyway, I’m here for a debrief, telling you you did a great job, yada yada. Seraph too, but she’s gone.”

“Yeah, she doesn’t much care for this stuff.”

“You don’t, either.”

“Eh,” Esper shrugs. He holds out his hand for the pipe and takes it from the redhead. “If I ever said I hate your mug, your sis would rip me a new one.”

“You don’t really hate my mug.”

“Nah, I’ve seen worse. Like your sis’.”

“I won’t tell her that, but only because we’re friends,” Infi laughs.

Esper’s tone carries a heavy tone of sarcasm as he says, “I appreciate it.”

“Anyway,” Infi mutters after a while, having made himself comfortable on Esper’s couch like every time, “Sis is meeting with the Crows on Saturday—”

“A weird day for a meeting.”

“—Yeah. But anyway, I want you to come with. La Diabla is coming too, along with her… boy toy? And I’d feel much better with someone who can rig up an explosive in case something goes south. Or un-rig it. Whichever.”

“Aw, and here I was, thinking you wanted me for my beauty, and you just want to exploit my collection of chemicals,” Esper snorts, but none of his words carry any heat. “I’ll go.”

“I think others would appreciate your ‘beauty’ more.”

“Fuck, dude, if anyone can appreciate my three day tank top and sweats, I’d be surprised.”

“Which reminds me, you will wear something appropriate, won’t you?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“If you come in a t-shirt and shorts I’ll let sis shoot you.”

“Her aim is shit.”

“Fair enough. Even my aim is better than hers.”

“You just don’t have enough concentration to stabilize it.”

“Well, mister smartypants, you don’t even have the upper arm strength to shoot one.”

“First of all, rude. Second of all, not true. And third of all, who needs a gun when you can have an explosion?”

“Sane people.”

“Aww. Nevermind then. Never qualified for one.”

* * *

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Esper mutters, glaring at his reflection in the passing window. “Last time I wore a suit was when I killed my father.”

“Good memories, huh?” Krim jabs, taking her attention off her call for but a second. She had been on call for over half an hour now (more than enough for Esper to set up his explosives around the only two exits of the warehouse), though mostly quiet and listening to whatever the other person has been babbling about. Esper doesn’t care.

“Actually, yeah.”

Krim’s expression darkens for a split second, looking at him with something unreadable. Not uncommon, when it comes to him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he bites, “Forget I said anything.”

* * *

The Commander is a fearsome man, with reputation preceding him by a mile or ten. Looking at him for the first time, aside from photos and low quality footage, Esper has to admit if it weren’t for years of expertise in the whole mafia/gang/whatever the hell they were, he still isn’t sure — sometimes the bosses act like goons, quarreling with the others, and sometimes they’re working like a switzerland watch — he would feel intimidated.

Instead, he just keeps to the shadows, fingering the fuse in his pocket, thumb running over the smooth surface of the buttons. It’s not that he would like to be stuck in a half-blown-to-high-heavens warehouse, but both Krim and Infi have been very adamant about the security measures.

They — he — end up being completely useless. The Commander drinks his polite glass of wine, brings out the cash Krim had demanded, and then turns his attention to La Diabla, looking the most out of place of them all, with her beautiful gown-like dress and hairdo fit for a runway.

Her… assistant… stands like a soldier a few feet over, the only one she had brought. That knowledge alone is more than enough to pique Esper’s curiosity, and he moves over to him, instantly grabbing his attention.

The man’s expression is unreadable, even moreso with the mask (which is, again, very unfit for a place like this, but for a completely different reason than La Diabla’s getup) obscuring half his face already. His eyes follow Esper’s every movement.

“Is she always like this?” Esper asks. The man cocks his head to the side as if in a question. Esper sighs. “This… pretty? Does she always go out of her way to look like she’s up for a modeling shoot in thirty minutes?”

This explanation seems to finally get through to the tall man. (Which, Esper begrudgingly seeths at. He’s already tall enough, no need to go the extra mile, right? Fuck you, taller people.) “That’s how she looks like,” is the simple answer.

“Uhhhh-huh…”

“Lu is beautiful.”

“And pays you a lot to say that too, huh. Wait, Lu?”

“Lu,” the other man repeats.

“Wait a sec right there— Is she…? No way, holy fuck. I knew she was familiar.” Fucking Luciela R. Sourcream, right here, under the fake name of La Diabla. Who would’ve fucking thought? Great, no wonder she only brought one man along.

Esper glances over at Infi, wondering if he knows. He’s got to, right? He does business with her.

Then again, she does look completely different right now that on any of the magazine covers that praise her almost-childlike appearance. Holy shit… This knowledge would sell for millions on the black market. Millions and… millions in bounty, too. Esper shudders inwardly at the thought of having to jump countries again to escape the persistence of mercs after a few easy millions.

“I’m Demonio.”

Esper is snapped out of his thoughts by the man’s voice. It still feels too gruff, like he’s unused to speaking much. Which he probably is, thinking about it. “Esper,” he replies.

Demonio gives him a nod and then goes back to looking presently dead inside. “I hate meetings like these.”

“Why’d you come, then?”

“Lu said, so I did.”

“Do you do everything she says?”

“Yes.”

“That’s kinda shitty,” Esper muses quietly. “But I hate these meetings too.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“Infi asked me to.”

“Do you do everything he asks?”

“No. But he’s a friend, y’know. We help each other out.”

Demonio makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat. “That’s nice.”

“Are you doing anything tonight?” Esper finds himself asking before he can even think about it. He wants to smack himself right after, but Demonio, despite what the name should suggest, seems like a nice guy who could use a little escape.

“Lu is shooting.”

“Uh—”

“Magazine.”

“Right…”

There’s silence, and Esper thinks that’s all there is to the conversation, but Demonio turns to him with a tilt of his head, as if he’d been waiting for Esper to elaborate on his question. “Why?”

“Well— There’s a good Chinese restaurant a few blocks from here, and they’re having an all-you-can-eat tonight. Me and Infi are going— And, frankly, you look like you should get something into your stomach.” Esper doesn’t really have the right to say something like that, but hey. Whatever.

Demonio looks down at him almost absently, leaning on his oversized sniper rifle — which Esper still doesn’t understand. They’re inside.

“That’s me extending the metaphorical olive branch. Y’know, friendship and all.”

“I’ll ask—”

“It’s alright,” come a lull of a voice, high pitched, silky and almost snake-like. Esper tenses up, eyes flitting to La Diabla. Shit. She must’ve heard. Demonio still looks as nonchalant and unbothered as ever, looking at her with confusion. “Go, dear, I can take care of myself one night.”

All the eyes inside are on them, now. The Commander’s, boring through and assessing; Krim’s, confused; Infi’s, mildly amused; and La Diabla’s, of course, seemingly even thankful as she looks at Esper.

He regrets agreeing with Infi to come. His fingers are still curled around the remote, itching to press a button and go hide somewhere during the explosions. He could’ve been at home, watching some stupid thing on Netflix and ignoring job offers instead of here, kindling friendship with the most well known assassin this side of the globe.

God, he really can’t wait to get home and get a cup of coffee. But then again, this is his life. And he hadn’t been shot or skewered on a blade yet. (Yet.) That’s a win in his books.

“Great. Anyone else who wants to tag along to the Chinese with us?” he asks, half rhetorically and full-on exasperated.

He doesn’t expect it in the slightest when the Commander grins and opens his mouth. “How good are their spring rolls?”

Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. This is gonna be one hell of a dinner.


End file.
